


Window, London, Paris, St. Petersburg

by omphale23



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four points in time, four places in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Window, London, Paris, St. Petersburg

**Author's Note:**

> Three snippets for **miss_zedem**'s fluff!battle.

_ **window, smoke, laughter** _

The light was still on in Dick's room.

Nix had been headed back to his billet, not staggering tonight but not from lack of trying--he couldn't get used to the warm beer at the pubs and something about the look on Sink's face told him that it was a bad time to hit the 69 too hard--and it was late and he was actually tired tonight, not just sick of everything and wishing for somewhere else. There was no good reason for him to climb the stairs and interrupt whatever was going on, no reason at all to walk into Dick's room at two ack emma and ask him why he was awake. He stopped and lit a cigarette, watching the house and trying to decide if he was drunk enough not to care. Laughed at the question, which meant probably he wasn't.

Nix always tried to have good reasons for the things he did when sober.

He tried to have a good excuse, at least, in case Dick thought to ask why he would arrive in the middle of the night or the middle of the afternoon or at times when they both knew there were other things to be done. Dick never, ever asked, but Nix liked to have his reason ready, because maybe someday he would. Tonight, though, he couldn't think of anything and so he should have kept walking, down the street and around the corner and up to the door of a house where a kind young lady who lived alone was waiting for him with a drink and a whole host of improper suggestions that he would be happy to oblige. He should have put his head down and walked away. He knew that, told himself the same thing every time. Parts of him were very well-intentioned.

But the light was on in Dick's room, and through the window Nix watched shadows cross like someone in it was pacing, like someone was waiting quietly and stopping sometimes to watch the firelight flicker. The light was still on and so he pinched out his cigarette and stuck it back into the pack for later. He didn't knock, just grabbed the handrail and pulled himself upward to the one place he wanted to be.

***

_ **London; before dawn; awake** _

He's not waiting for Nix to arrive.

Dick is not waiting for anything. He can't sleep, and the room is cold despite the fire in the tiny rattling Dutch stove, and so even though it's the middle of the night Dick is awake. For no particular reason.

He's not waiting for Nix to stumble in, drunk again and muttering excuses so ridiculous that Dick will refuse to acknowledge them with a reply. He's not hesitating in front of the window, leaning his forehead against the glass and squinting as he blocks his own reflection to see down into the empty street. Dick certainly isn't pacing, or catching himself stood in the center of the room as he considers what time it is now. He's just awake, that's all. Too tired to sleep, he chooses to do this instead. Whatever this is. Whatever this isn't.

He's not distracted by the half-empty bottle on his desk, or the neat pile of unsigned requisition forms under the bottle, or the thought of Nix's crooked grin two nights ago, Nix's mouth wrapped around his own finger to wipe away spilled whiskey.

He's not wondering the name of the woman Nix probably found to take him home this time. He's not imagining them together, Nix with his eyes closed and his mouth tense, breathing hard and choking back a moan. Dick isn't watching the Nix in his imagination, picturing himself in the room, letting himself think about what he would do if granted permission, if Nix would ask him for anything at all. He's not waiting for Nix to ask for what Dick is willing to give.

He is not thinking about any of these things, and so he sits down at the desk to get some work done as he doesn't wait. Strayer is in London again, and Dick tries not to resent that as he loads a sheet of paper into the carriage and rolls up his sleeves. Resentment won't keep him warm, and neither will longing. Work, though, might be enough to help him sleep.

He's just started typing when footsteps echo on the stairs.

***

_ **Eiffel Tower; half-asleep; 'til hell freezes over'** _

The Eiffel Tower was smaller than Nix remembered it. He had been a child, though. Everything seemed bigger then. The world was enormous, and Paris was the world, only brighter. Bigger, and with fewer explosions. Less blood and no bullets and although that was better in some ways, he preferred this small, dark, silent version.

This Paris, for instance, contained Dick Winters. At least, it was supposed to, and Nix didn't think about what he'd do if Dick had returned to Belgium early, or been called back to duty while Nix was busy hitching rides from MPs and bartering with French farmers for the bottle of wine and loaf of bread in his bag. He didn't let the thought of being in Paris alone enter his mind.

Instead, Nix took a deep breath and turned away from the monument, headed for the Red Cross billets because Dick Winters was a predictable man and he'd be there, fast asleep and not waiting for anyone to arrive. Or he'd be drowsing in a chair with a letter half-written on his lap, pretending that he hadn't been bone weary for months and angry over the promotion, too frustrated to sleep and drowning in paperwork. He'd be downstairs, leaning against a wall and trying to figure out how other people thought of things to say to strangers.

Nix knew that he'd be somewhere, though. In this city, Dick Winters was trying to be a good American tourist, and all Nix had to do was find out where.

He was right about the Red Cross, they did have Dick's bag and his name in a book and a room that belonged to him for the night. But they didn't have any idea where Dick had gone, or when he'd be back, and so Nix settled onto the bed with his bottle and a book he'd scrounged from the tiny lending library downstairs. Dick had to return eventually. He always came back, and if he didn't, Nix would go and find him. It was what they did. They found each other.

Dick would come back soon enough.

Nix didn't know what he'd say when that happened. Maybe something about the lights of Paris sparkling on water when he was twelve. Maybe something about the way that Aldbourne had lost its appeal. Maybe Dick already knew, and Nix wouldn't need to say anything at all.

***

** _St Petersburg; sky; corkscrew_ **

Lewis Nixon is in St. Petersburg, maybe. Or perhaps he's in Moscow by now; Dick's left the letter at home on his desk, and it's not important anyway. Wherever they are, Nix and his lovely new bride, Dick knows that they're not thinking of Pennsylvania or New Jersey or Austria. They're thinking of love and vows and long evenings by the fire. They're thinking of those things, and a room in a town in Belgium doesn't figure into it. Paris is not on the itinerary.

And Dick has convinced himself that it's better this way, for everyone to move on and grow up and rejoin the world. He's certain of it, in the way that he was certain that a battle plan would work, the way that he remains certain that he'll never have another friend who listens the way that Nix did. Sometimes you only get the one chance.

Dick sighs and puts down the telephone, unable to justify the expense of the international call or remember entirely what he wanted to say. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because it might not be St. Petersburg at all. It could be Vienna or London or Kiev, for all he knows.

Dick doesn't recall when he lost the ability to know where Nix was without looking, but he thinks that it used to be in the space beneath his ribs that aches now. He's just trying to decide what time it is in Barcelona, or maybe it's Rome, when the telephone rings.

And suddenly that space is too full, sharp blue and his breath catches on it, because Dick knows, even before he reaches for the receiver, whose voice will be on the other end of the line.


End file.
